Just Like Old Times
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: Dexter and Debra bond over steaks and beer. Post-Season 5. Rated for language.


Water.

The world is full to the brim with water related symbolism, no pun intended. OK, yes it was. Baptism, giving life, renewing the spirit and cleansing the soul. I don't know if there's enough water on earth for _that_, but I can understand the appeal.

I can also understand why people fear water. My experience tends toward the darker end of the spectrum, after all: burial at sea, evidence of my crimes salvaged from the bottom of the ocean, poor Rita dead in a bathtub of bloody water.

Despite it all, I like water just fine. In fact, nothing washes away tension at the end of a long day quite like a hot shower. Which is exactly what I chose to indulge in the night before Astor, Cody, and Harrison moved back in to my apartment for the summer. It was so relaxing, so—

_BANG BANG BANG_

—So often interrupted by very insistent knocking at my front door.

Damn it. I can't help but add to the noise by banging my head against the shower wall a few times in frustration. Is a few hours to myself too much to ask? I wasn't even planning on killing anyone.

I rinsed off and made a beeline for my bedroom, dressing so quickly my clothes stuck to wet patches of skin I missed toweling off. When I finally reached the door it was already open as far as the chain would allow, which meant my dead-bolt was no match for whoever interrupted my solitude. Debra peeked in through the gap.

"Shit, Dex, if you want to keep me out, just change the fucking locks, I'll get the hint."

"Deb, can this wait? I was kind of in the middle of something."

"You're always in the middle of something. Can you just open the fucking door?"

"Fine." I pushed the door shut, took a steadying breath, and slid the lock open. Deb burst through the door like she had just downed three cups of coffee and needed the bathroom ASAP. "So what was so important you couldn't call me on the phone or wait until morning?"

"Tried the phone and you didn't answer so I figured you were either in the shower or asleep. I had these huge fucking plans to surprise you, but you put the damn chain on. I thought with the kids moving back in tomorrow we should commemorate your last night of freedom with a couple of six packs and some steaks. You know, have some real brother-sister time, just the two of us. It's been a while."

"Tempting, but..."

"Come on, Dex. With all the fucked up shit that's happened, we haven't really had any time to just be... us. I miss it," she said, smiling that goofy little half-smile that she's used since she was twelve years old to convince me to do things she wants. It works better now than it ever did then. Maybe I really am maturing emotionally...

"Besides, I splurged on some really top of the line steaks. I'm serious, the amount of money I spent on them, the cows probably ate caviar and shit rainbows. Are you seriously gonna pass this up?" ...And sometimes Deb is just as uncomfortable showing emotion as I am. I let myself smile back.

"How could I say no to that?"

"Fuckin' A! Now where's your cast iron skillet? There's something I saw on the food channel I've gotta try."

* * *

The steaks were delicious, but they did little to dampen the effects of all the beer we drank, not to mention the shots of whatever Deb dug out of my cabinet. I might have been risking a hangover in the morning, but Deb was right. It had been a long time since we tried to unwind in this particular way and, to tell the truth, I kind of missed it, too.

So much changed since the last time she and I sat in front of the TV, knocking back cold ones. We've both lost someone. _We've_ changed. Although, judging by Debra's enthusiastic musings about the vigilantes who killed Jordan Chase and his band of murderous bootlickers, she changed more than I did.

She didn't come right out and say she let them—us—go, but she certainly made it very clear she admires what they—we—did. Even envies us a little.

"At least she got some satisfaction, you know? Fucking douchebag Rudy might be dead, but he killed himself. Where's the justice in that? It was on his fucking terms, not mine. I mean, don't you ever feel that way about Trinity? If you were face to face with Arthur Mitchell, tell me you wouldn't want to slit his fucking throat for what he did to Rita."

No, but I would like to bash his head in with the claw side of a hammer. Again.

While explaining those complicated feelings would prove she isn't alone in thinking sometimes dead just isn't good enough, somehow I doubted that was exactly the kind of commiseration Deb was looking for.

"It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring Rita back."

"No, it wouldn't, but it would probably feel fucking amazing."

I'm still not used to this new bloodthirsty Debra. It must have shown on my face, because she she reacted. Vigorously.

She stood up and started pacing. "Oh, fuck you! Don't look at me like that, you're no fucking pacifist."

"No, but—"

"You said yourself that some people don't deserve to live. Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me you wouldn't kill that motherfucker if you had the chance."

Her eyes were blazing, daring me to say it. I was suddenly struck with the knowledge that this was one moment I could be completely honest with her about the darker part of myself if I chose to. It wasn't even dangerous; she was speaking in hypotheticals. The temptation was too strong to ignore.

I met her eyes and let a little bit of my darkness show through, just enough to be believable but not enough to scare her off. (If anything would have at this point.) "Yes. Yes, I would kill him."

"Good." She sank back onto the couch and took a swig from her bottle. "At least I know you're fucking human. Sometimes I'm not so sure." Another swig. "I'd kill him, too. And I'd kill that douchenozzle Chase, if Number Thirteen hadn't gotten him first."

I'm not the most perceptive when it comes to gauging social situations, but I could tell Debra was on a slippery slope toward a tricky confession. She wouldn't be very happy in the morning with a hangover and an admission that she let two killers walk free.

"Deb, you're drunk—"

"You bet your cute little ass I am!"

Well, _that_ was unexpected.

"Did you just say I had a cute ass?" Deb stared at me, dumbstruck. I wrinkled my nose. I may be slightly less than human, but I'm pretty sure sisters aren't supposed to admire their brothers' asses. Not even foster sisters. Though I will admit it makes for a surefire way to change the subject.

"All right, you've definitely had enough of this." I plucked the almost-empty beer from her hand. "You can crash here for the night. On the couch."

"I can't believe I just said that."

"It's OK. We all have our moments of insanity."


End file.
